Merlin x Arthur
by Flagfish
Summary: This is a very dirty story; Merlin comes to Arthur's aid; the specific request was: "Merlin seducing Arthur via dragonspeak; restraints/blindfold; Arthur as bottom, completely undone by Merlin's authority."


"_Faster_," the word issued strained with impatience and laden insistent with greed; there came the heavy slide of chain mail, echoing graceless and clinking on stone, with just enough leeway in-between the metal binds for Merlin to have at him proper. There were sparse words exchanged, only the expiration of breath and fluid motion of limbs, the profane strike of flesh against flesh, Arthur undone in his grasp, fluid glistening hot at the naked expanse of his thighs.

XXX

To be fair, Arthur had put up a fair fight when he was captured. It was no easy task, taking hostage a prince trained to kill since birth and accompanied by his cavalry of knights, King Wyrtgeorn knew; it were no ordinary man, then, who could have successfully taken him, and the combined efforts of sorcerers and beasts were required to have him securely restrained. The king had wished for a tower's construction, but work appeared thwarted time and again by dark sorcery, until, at the advice of his elders, Wyrtgeorn had sought to sprinkle the blood of an orphaned prince on the ground. This would keep dark forces at bay, they had said, and Arthur of Camelot had all but walked into their hands in his travels through Wessex.

The prince also was accompanied by his wizard advisor, the boy Merlin fated to protect and deliver him, and while in recent years he'd been revealed to Arthur and his knights for what he were, still many did not know the full capacity of Merlin's hand in sorcery.

Arthur didn't fully know. He'd have willingly died for his kingdom, his people and even his knights, but for the inane construction of a tower at a rival king's court was a horror with no conceivably justifiable end—he was nearly as much fascinated as he were enraged and annoyed to find himself actually overpowered, far from the reach of his knights and too powerfully incapacitated to defend himself. No mere human ruler could have accomplished something like this—not without magic, he knew.

He didn't know how long he had lain in near complete darkness, limbs bound and secured, the cold smell of stone all around— he was drowsy when he came to, unable to struggle enough in his binds for release. On trying to shout, he found he was gagged and blindfolded as well, with only enough damp cloth under his nose to allow him to breathe.

Arthur was no coward. In his mind, he had tried to make sense of things, and to put together a plan, something to figure out how long he'd been out, what might have been done with his company, how he might ensure they were safe—

It occurred to him as he tried to move that his limbs were terribly sore, with bruises and cuts here and there, and he partly remembered the struggle—

He'd done well for his part. He was brilliantly proficient with his sword, and Wyrtgeorn didn't take him without penalty; Arthur's company had fought bravely, as well. They were outnumbered, he remembered now, it was a planned attack; they had warriors on their side, with weapons and beasts—

_And magic_, there was the unmistakable power of sorcery there, but beyond that, it all went to a blur—

He realized now they hadn't stood a chance. He hoped the others had survived and had gone back for help, he worried suddenly his dearest friends were done for— as while Arthur was a prince, he cared deeply for his knights and people all the same, and for his servant-turned-advisor, most beloved to his heart—

Merlin was tall and very slender, all clever innocence, all knobs and joints— with gentleness and playful mischief in his heart, and foreordained loyalty to Arthur that was destined in legend and time; still then, Arthur yet had not known how closely his fate lay protected at the wizard's hands, and how he would guard and defend him.

He worried for Merlin. The boy was quick and very smart, and even if he had magic, what could he really have done in the face of a full-fledged attack, he'd be collateral damage at the strike of an arrow, the inadvertent swing of a sword— he'd always foolishly fashioned himself more competent at dangerous sports than he were—

He hardly expected it to be Merlin, then, when there came in the distance the discordant shouts and hard cries of battle, the clatter of weapons and rumble and crashing of stone, with men far off yelling, then calls of attack— his heart quickened, _his men had survived and have come to his aid—_

In his binds, Arthur fought as of impulse to move, aware it were useless but too restless to lay quietly in place, his breath came humid and hot at the bind on his mouth, _something was happening, he could hear it going louder—_

This was no ordinary battle. There came the metal twang of swords, but not against weapons and shields— rather, against the smashing force of stone, _there were walls coming down,_ heavy rumble of collapse; _explosion of fire—_

By the time the sound came near enough, Arthur could feel the heat in the air, laden gusts of wind billowing outside the walls, then a tremendous crack of earth and cinder as great masses of rock came crumbling down. He could hear the crackle of fire. _He could smell the carnage of war_.

There issued a guttural shout, reverberating all at once primal and mystically arcane, loud and all-encompassing through the expanse of the enclosure and its walls that had disintegrated throughout. Arthur had heard this before; he'd forgotten how it had his breath hitch in his throat and the pulse in him quicken, profoundly aware of what magic was and how humbled with awe a mere mortal man were when faced with it in earnest.

It were a different thing altogether, a man skilled with a sword and noble with valor, when poised in living contrast side by side with a sorcerer; _Arthur didn't need his sight to know this much_.

Merlin was no ordinary sorcerer. There was awareness all around of the waiting potential in his force, that went beyond presence or comprehension or time; it occurred to Arthur that it all were familiar, and that he'd forgotten how subtly and acutely he'd known it before.

He comprehended entirely his own limitations as _human_ in the face of the ancient language of dragons, the wizard Merlin commanding the beast in manner and tone that came to him not with learned knowledge, but the eternal presence of all that he were; all around, the walls had come crashing, the foundation set aflame, as the creature that once terrorized Camelot had now been ordered at the warlock's beck and call for the utmost importance of Arthur's defense.

Arthur could smell the blood on him. He'd not realized how alive with animal instinct he were until Merlin's hands came on him, gripping with purpose at the binds. Arthur meant to say something, but the gag still was in place, Merlin was telling him impatiently to stop struggling and stay still, and Arthur became aware he was fidgeting all around, writhing uselessly with adrenaline as though meaning to jump into action.

"_Don't move_," it came impatient and firm, and immediately after was the thundering blast of a spell, Arthur's voice muffled at the echoing impact of magic, he could feel the binds on his body struggle to snap.

"The shackles are magic; Arthur, _don't move_," Merlin's voice came again, unmistakably authoritative and absolute, then his hard grip on Arthur's mandible, the deafening tone of a spell, and Arthur shouted in pain despite himself as his gag was ripped off.

The naked skin round his chin and mouth felt uncomfortably damp, but the air was pleasant and cool; whatever words he might have had never came, drowned by the successive impact of enchantments, one deafening incantation after the next with the full blast of action, all crashing dead on the binds of his wrists, his arms and his trunk— until finally the shackles at his abdomen burst asunder with tremendous clatter.

"_You're wounded_," Merlin said, and now already Arthur found his voice, but Merlin wasn't listening; he tugged at Arthur's belt and the chain mail of his armor to pull it over his abdomen and down beneath his hips, his voice came with complete disregard of whatever words Arthur managed, another ear-splitting eruption cracking the air. Even with his blind, Arthur could see the bright flash of light, he could feel its heat on the parts of his skin still exposed.

What followed was a bout of penetrating pain, Arthur's voice emanating clear and distinct through the room and laden heavy with despair, his back arching; Merlin was too consumed with urgency that time to tell him to stay still, bony hands pressing hard into the wound, shouts reverberating with impact beyond the mere echo of sound.

They were washed over both, with something like incandescence of fire, Arthur had seen it before—_when accompanied once by his knights in defense of his kingdom, against the Great Dragon_. But after the heat and white luminescence subsided, he was numbed in his skin; he became slowly aware he was better for it. It occurred to him the Great Dragon's fire was now called to his aid in the means of healing, there was the pulse of his heart—

Arthur hadn't realized how he'd been trembling, the maddening course of adrenaline still fast in his blood, his breath ragged and shallow, and slowly he felt Merlin's warm hands withdraw from his abdomen.

The words never made it past his lips; to the extent that his right wrist were free, he gripped with shaking fingers at the sleeve of Merlin's shirt, tugging hard. Neither of them spoke; he felt Merlin's hands come on either side of his face, mouth rough on his. They kissed with fervor unrestrained, seized with inexplicable hunger and aware of encompassing longing for each other that neither had patience to endure.

For the time being, Merlin didn't bother with the rest of the binds; they would have to wait, it would take another round of incantations to work at bursting them apart. Arthur's hands tensed in their restraints, gripping at nothing, he fought only with his mouth as his lips smashed on Merlin's. He didn't have to ask; they both knew it. _They both wanted it_.

There came only the single word, _yes_, when he felt the boy's fingers at his trousers, the chain mail rustling under his grip, the vague ministrations of digits against the cloth laces—

He was completely hard in Merlin's hand, chains clinking as his hips rose of their own accord to meet him, his breath almost unbearably loud; he could feel the hot slide of fluid slick on his own flesh before it trailed to the other boy's fingers, then the obscene sound of sex as the digits moved wetly on him—

In the aftermath of pressure, his naked thighs still stung tender and damp, Merlin had his garments far down as he could considering the ankle binds. Arthur had enough leeway to let him touch. "Go on already_, Merlin_," the words finally came, but he didn't manage more; this much was enough. Indeed Merlin's unwavering loyalty to the Once and Future King had him tending for years with intimate attention that left an unspoken, mutual understanding between them.

Merlin released his member and gripped his thighs apart, Arthur's back curving again as he pulled them to either side as far as they'd go; the chains scraped and clinked in their wake. His vision black behind the blindfold, he felt Merlin's mouth on him, the humid expiration of his breath, the very slight feel of stubble, his hand wet with fluid; he felt profanely exposed and vulnerably helpless, _and there was something frightfully dirty in it that had him gracelessly hungry for more._

"Not even a _thank you_ for coming to save you," there came Merlin's voice, "Reckon I ought to stop right here."

"_Merlin…!_"

"No, really, I'm not surprised. Are you surprised?"

"_Merlin, would you get on with it—_"

Even with the blindfold in place, Arthur could practically see Merlin shake his head in annoyance. But any comic bout of mischief vanished soon as it came as Arthur again was reminded of who Merlin was, when he felt his mouth on him. He didn't handle him gently; he acted with stifled impatience and knowing proficiency that had Arthur humbled despite himself.

"_Thank you—_" he sputtered before his pride got the better of him, and he also went from lighthearted taunting to genuine gratitude – _he still were partly bound, after all_.

_To be continued…_

_A/N: Inspiration for this story taken from Nennius' Historia Brittonum and Geoffrey's Historia Regum Britanniae. _


End file.
